We head to Lagoa do Fogo, known as the Lake of Fire, in the morning. It is a crater lake in the Stratovolcano massif. It is the highest lake on the island of São Miguel. The government doesn’t allow buildings to be built around here, and I don’t blame them. They don’t want to destroy the natural beauty. We park in the parking lot next to the buses, from which crowds of tourists are rushing.
Lagoa do Fogo
Lubko is looking for a suitable place to urinate, but it is in vain. We are chased by crowds everywhere. The descent to the lake is more difficult for people of smaller stature, like me. There are giant steps, but we eventually successfully descend to circumnavigate the lake.
Tourists return from the area where we are going with a blank look on their faces. “I’ve seen similar looks in a documentary about soldiers returning from combat. It’s called PTSD – post-traumatic stress syndrome.”
The Seagull
Finally, we stopped one such traumatized couple and asked how the walk around the lake was. They stare at us for a moment, and then the boy stammers out: “S-S-Seagull.” Silence reigns. “…Bad seagulls,” the lady adds, looking somewhere in the distance across us. We wait to see if they’ll elaborate on that thought. After short silence, they start moving towards the parking lot again.
Moving on, Lagoa do Fogo is wonderful and crystal clear. We arrive in an area where the pebble beach is beginning to be lined with tall grass. I don’t know how to describe the following events accurately, but if you’ve seen Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 horror film The Birds, you get the idea. The frequency, intensity, and ferocity of the aerial attack by waterfowl increases with each passing step. “They have air dominance,” Lubko shouts, commanding a retreat. As we move away from the tall grass, the attack subsides, and we count our losses. “They got you,” Lubko says, pointing to the green bird poop on my sleeve.
Santa Barbara Beach
Despite this experience, we are still intoxicated by the scenery of this lake and return to the car. It is only early afternoon, and we spend the rest of the day at Santa Barbara Beach, just outside the village of Ribeira Grande on the island’s north coast.
The beach of black volcanic sand is semi-empty, and the water is a little colder than, say Greece, but at least it’s refreshing. A red flag flies, and the local Baywatch has its eyes peeled. Local surfers enjoy the waves. We can only surf on the internet. It looks like fun, and there are surf schools, but surfing is not a “skill” I crave. Lubko suggested that I could learn the basics and put my ironing board in the tub at home, and he would make waves for me so I could continue to improve, but that wouldn’t be it.
Next day Saturday. We decided to sleep in a bit and leave for the trip later. A trek to the Salto do Prego waterfall awaited us.
